The 10 Rider - a Parody
by DarkRiver
Summary: Well, if there's a 10th Walker, then it stands to reason...


The 10th Rider  
By DarkRiver (darkriver@cyberdude.com)  
  
It really is disgraceful. I mean, here we are, the greatest of men of eons ago, imbued with dark power, immortal, scary as sin and given sophisticated hunting instincts. And, thanks to that retarded little gnome Gollum, we knew right where to look.  
  
I know, I know, disguising ourselves as riders in black wasn't the most inspired costume. I wanted to go as a traveling circus, but Bob - his real name we can't remember - insisted on the black cloaks. And it was his turn.  
  
And it worked out. People were too busy running in terror to stop and ask us who we were or what our business was. Except for one cheeky fellow who approached us while we were watering the horses.  
  
"Hey, um, pardon me...don't mean to bother you, but are you all supposed to be the Nasgul or something?"  
  
"Shire...Baggins..."  
  
That's Kip...he's a bit funny in the head. Something about having his soul stolen by the Dark Lord and turned into an undead lackey messed him up. Go figure.   
  
"Baggins? Don't know no Baggins," the man said with a laugh. "Knew a Bagwort once..."  
  
"Yes, well-"  
  
"Crazy old coot, used to do this thing-"  
  
"Please be quiet."  
  
"Scared the heck out of my wife."  
  
"Shut up!"  
  
"Shut up? Who do you think you are?"  
  
"Well, I was your king...a few millennia ago."  
  
"Well, I never voted for you."  
  
I simply had to kill him. One swift blow ended his prattling.  
  
"Shire...Baggins..."  
  
"Yes, yes..."  
  
So, anyway, I really am at a loss how to explain how four halflings evaded and in fact outdistanced us on our horses. I tell you, if I had cheeks, they would be so red.  
  
But, there is hope. You see, in this world of myth and magic, numbers are important, and balance is everything. Nine riders means nine Fellowshippers. Not that the Loser, the Moper, the Stick, the Midget, and three halflings were ever going to keep us from the Ringbearer. That is to laugh!  
  
But, the final nail in their coffin is that, quite strangely, there's a tenth. Impossible you say? Defies all the rules you say? Breaks the very foundation of the whole flaming story?  
  
Bet your ass, and I did a jig when I heard of it. Now, I don't know much about this tenth Fellowshipper. I think it's a female, red, no gold hair...eyes that set fire to the soul, which sounds unpleasant even to me who doesn't have one. I think the Stick is infatuated with her.  
  
You would think if there were going to be a tenth, it would have been that Arwen broad...little miss "If you want him, come and claim him." Oh she thinks she's just so clever. Do you have any idea what a black cloak wedgie feels like?  
  
But, no, she stays behind and some other girl steps in. And that breaks the balance and puts us in a very good position.  
  
"We need to get a move on," Queen Elivandara announces.  
  
Queen who?  
  
I glance over and see, to my utter astonishment, a tenth rider. Tall, slender...and why in blazes does she get to be pretty when my johnson fell off fifteen centuries ago?  
  
"Bob," I ask, staring at the graceful woman (woman? Of all the ridiculous...) and tapping the pommel of my sword. "Who's that?"  
  
"Queen Elevandara."  
  
"I know that."  
  
"Then why did you ask?" Bob seemed unamused, but then, he had always been a sour puss.   
  
"I meant, what is she doing here?"  
  
"She's our leader," Bob responded, clearly thinking I was heading into Kip's area of the bramble field.  
  
"We don't have a leader!" I roar. This would simply not due.  
  
"Of course we do. She's the most powerful of us all."  
  
"Really?"  
  
"Oh yes, bested us all in single combat."  
  
Now that he mentioned it, I did seem to recall a dreadful defeat at her hands. Her sword, moving like lightning...  
  
I smacked myself in the head. This was really the foulest kind of sorcery. I decided to deal with it one on one. So, I storm over to her and she gets all mooney-eyed. Before I have a chance to say anything, she starts talking.  
  
"I was Isildur's sister, ahead of him in the line of succession."  
  
Women don't inherit squat, I thought to tell her, but she was lost in her monologue.  
  
"Mighty Sauron sent me many favors as proof of his love for me. He was most persistent, but I would not yield to his affections. In the end, he demanded I marry him, but I spurned him."  
  
"Sauron doesn't love anyone. Are you crazy?"  
  
My words only inspired her to greater melodrama. Great crystal tears ran down her face, glistening in the moonlight. I felt like I was in the middle of a bad play.  
  
"I took the ring he gave to my father, taking the curse upon myself. In the end, he took greater possession of me than I could have ever feared."  
  
"But...you didn't... You weren't bloody there! Nine rings for kings of men."  
  
"I am a Queen of men," she tells me haughtily. "Doomed to serve the Dark Lord for an eternity..."  
  
"Stop that!" I insist. My head hurt, and I was a little alarmed by the sense she was starting to make. It had been three thousand years and my brain had rotted long ago. Maybe she was telling the truth. I mean, it wasn't so bad, having a leader. She had always been wise and...  
  
"Arrrrggghhh!" I panted and looked around. Everyone was waiting for me, apparently.  
  
"Shire? Baggins?"  
  
I sigh, my shoulders slump. "Right then...the ten dark riders set forth from Mordor..." 


End file.
